


greetings from the göteborgs museum

by zeitgeistofnow



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Art thief, Domesticity, F/F, Postcards, everyone gets home safe and is happy - Freeform, lovelace feeds deer - Freeform, minkowski and lovelace find a nice idyllic little house in the countyside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 18:54:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12990387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeitgeistofnow/pseuds/zeitgeistofnow
Summary: minkowski, lovelace, and eiffel are eating breakfast when they receive a postcard from someone they haven't talked to in a while.





	greetings from the göteborgs museum

Lovelace shuffles out to the porch, rubbing her head and yawning. 

Minkowski is in the kitchen, she’s been up for a while, making breakfast. “Iz, where’d you go?”

“I’m grabbing the mail, sweetheart.” Lovelace swipes the piles of bills from by the door and wanders back into the kitchen, splaying them onto the table. “When’s Doug coming over?”

Minkowski looks up from the frying pan, “Anytime now. I told him to report at 700 hours, and it’s 8:30.”

Lovelace hums, leaving the mail on the table and walking over to wrap her arms around Minkowski’s waist. “Ooh, you’re making…” she trails off, peering at whatever’s in the frying pan. “You’re making,” she tries again, “Uhh.. bacon?”

Minkowski scowls up at her. “So close.”

“What is it?”

“French toast.”

Lovelace looks at the toast again. “Oh! I can see how that’s what it is… there’s the toast and the French?”

Minkowski looks back at the frying pan. “The French,” she repeats, sounding unimpressed. 

“Yeah!” Lovelace decides to run with it. “You can see their little berets, and if you listen closely, you can hear that the sizzling is French-accented!”

Minkowski takes a deep breath and sighs. “Berets?”

Lovelace yawns again. “Maybe I’m seeing things.”

Minkowski looks at the pan again. “Yeah, I think you probably-”

The doorbell rings, a loud buzzing that doesn't stop. Both women run to the door, where Eiffel is standing on the stoop, pressing the doorbell again and again. He smiles guiltily at them. “I couldn’t get it to stop,” he says, “sorry.”

Minkowski sighs, looking at Lovelace. “I thought you said you were going to get to that.”

Lovelace blinks. “I said what?”

Eiffel barges past them, falling back and slouching on their couch. “Nice pajamas, Captain,” he says, staring at the pictures on the wall.

Lovelace looks down at what she’s wearing and frowns at Eiffel. “What’s wrong with a sports bra and pajama bottoms?”

Minkowski laughs, walking over to her chair, muttering about how  _ ‘they’re hello kitty pants, Iz’ _ .

Eiffel shrugs. “Oh, nothing. It’s just exactly what Jacobi used to wear to sleep.”

“You’re comparing me to him, now?” Lovelace leans against the wall. “Where’d he go, anyway?”

“We kept in touch for awhile,” Eiffel says thoughtfully, “but once he got settled we drifted out of touch. I can’t say I know.”

“What do you bet he’s broken the law a few times?” Minkowski grins wickedly. 

“A  _ few?”  _ Eiffel shakes his head, his hair bobbing. “The man’s probably blown up a dozen priceless pieces of art by now.”

They settle into a silence, thinking. Eiffel about which rich prick’s private collection Jacobi probably went after first, Minkowski about how lucky they were to get off that ship and find this strangely picturesque house, and Lovelace about how she thinks that she smells something burning. 

“Sweetheart, is there something burning?”

Minkowski curses. “C’mon into the kitchen, guys.”

 

Three minutes later they’re eating leftover pizza from two days ago, Eiffel talking with his mouth full about the guy he met at the dog park last night, Minkowski pointing out that he doesn’t have a dog, so why was he at the dog park, Eiffel countering that any guy who hangs out at the dog park is probably nice, and Minkowski grudgingly agreeing. Lovelace sorts through the mail. 

“Bill, bill, bill, check from Goddard, bill, oh are we still getting National Geographic?”

Eiffel cuts in. “Hera’s paying for our subscriptions. Wants us to read about what she’s doing at the institute she’s at.”

Lovelace glances up to him, “Huh. Well, Nat Geo, three catalogs for three different men's clothing companies- that sweatshirt would look great on you, sweetheart- a letter from Eiffel’s ex-wife, and a postcard.”

Lovelace tosses the rest of the mail aside, holding up the postcard and examining it. It’s a postcard that says in fancy block letters ‘it’s okay if you don’t agree with me, i can’t force you to be right’, and Lovelace immediately knows who it is. She flips it over. 

_ Daniel Jacobi, PO 346, Stockholm, Sweden.  _ His handwriting is rushed, or maybe it’s just naturally messy. Lovelace hasn’t seen much of his handwriting before. 

She has to squint to read the message. 

_ Hey, assholes! _

_ I’m having a beautiful time in Sweden with my beau, we just visited Göteborgs Museum. Wish you were here! Oh wait, I don’t. Anyway, I’ll stop by when I’m in town, and expect a package from me to arrive soon.  _

_ Xoxo, Jacobi _

Eiffel hops over to Lovelace and tried to look over her shoulder. 

Lovelace reads it out loud to Minkowski and hands the postcard to Eiffel, who gets pizza grease on the shiny-photographic side. 

Minkowski takes another bite of her basil-tomato-and-feta-cheese pizza. 

Lovelace kicks her feet up onto the chair next to her. “What’d you want to bet that the package is a bomb?”

“If it’s a bomb, you owe me fifteen dollars and a night out,” Eiffel challenges. 

“Minkowski?”

Minkowski holds up a finger, swallows, and frowns. “If it’s not a bomb, you have to take me out to dinner.”

“You’re both on.” Lovelace grins. “When do you think it’ll come-”

The doorbell starts ringing again, and all three race to the door. This time it’s a UPS mailman, with swoopy hair and an unkempt uniform, who’s staring in horror at the doorbell. Lovelace takes pity on him. “Don’t worry about that. It’s just broken.”

“Oh. Well. Oh.” he stares at the button for a few more seconds, then up at the trio standing in the door. “I have a package for one Dog Eiffel?”

Eiffel coughs, “It’s Doug.”

“It says Dog here.”

“Well, the person that sent the package is awful. Where do I sign?” Eiffel takes a pen from a nearby table and signs the paper the UPS boy produces. “Thank you,” he says, hefting the box into the house. Lovelace and Minkowski follow him, after waving goodbye to the mailman, who tips his hat and walks down the path. 

“It’s from Jacobi,” Eiffel states.

“It’s not ticking,” Lovelace observes. 

“If Jacobi sent us a bomb, it wouldn’t be ticking,” Minkowski counters. 

Eiffel takes a swiss army knife out of his pocket and opens the box. 

“It’s a painting,” he announces. 

It is a painting, actually, of a red-headed lady. 

“Not a bomb,” Lovelace says, almost sounding disappointed. 

Eiffel shakes his head. “Oh, ye of little faith. There could be a bomb in it-”

Minkowski shakes her head. “Nope, no bomb.” she takes out her phone, “But I’ve seen this painting before, and I don’t quite know where-” she grins triumphantly, holding up her phone, which is open to a news article:  **Inge Schiöler’s ‘Red-haired Model’ disappears from Göteborgs Museum in Sweden.**

Eiffel scans a paragraph or two of the article, then breaks into a grin. “I told you he was an art thief.”

**Author's Note:**

> so that's that. i hope you enjoyed it! i'm just trying to ignore the fact that the finale is soon my covering all my worry in fluff! yay!


End file.
